


More Than Once

by RAAMIsABeast



Series: Mini Projects [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Age Difference, Blood, Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Child Death, Coming of Age, Demon Blood, Demon Blood Addiction, Demon Hunters, Demonic Possession, Demons, Destruction, Gift Giving, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Character(s), Possessive Behavior, Shapeshifting, Slow Build, Slow To Update
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-13 04:57:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12976452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RAAMIsABeast/pseuds/RAAMIsABeast
Summary: Many members of the proud race known as Demons mingled with the human population. They are seen as just a myth, a story for children and Halloween. Many turned to organized hunts into the woods to sate the instinctual urge for blood.There were a few who gave Demons a bad name, beasts of beasts. Humans start being mauled within the largest human city upon the planet, and no one believes a myth could be real.Demons themselves are weary of the killer, for the true killer is not just one of their own species.





	More Than Once

_**\- 'To love oneself is to be vain. Could one call the darkness of their self the same name as oneself carries? Is the darkness truly one's self?'. -** _

  
Her hand slipped into the sheath of warmth created by the firm handshake of greeting, bestowed upon her by the person who's presence she was in. The woman, drawn by a friend telling her about this person, had seeked them out with the aim of passing vital information regarding the savage killings. These killings sprouted in the dead of the night, concentrated in no particular block or street.

In the same way the area of the deaths were not the same, neither were the deceased. Men, women, intersex. Young, old, middle age. Homeless, poor, comfortable or the rich. However, the one age the killer had yet to touch was those younger than three years of age. This bracket included fetuses, alone mothers who were expecting free to walk the streets as a baby grew within them. A token of life and the continuation of the mother.

And now one had to ask how the killer knew of the extra life within the woman. For that answer one just had to analyse the wounds. Jagged, wrenching lines ended each life, digging deep into the flesh as if looking to scar both the body and the soul. Inhuman, surely.

A soft breath passed the woman's lips when she realised the mystery of this investigation, whose information she contained within the sleek, shining, black - which the woman constructed both an orderly information set and the hope of looking professional - folder. Settled beneath all of the papers her theories as to the killer lay. She and her small group had left no stone unturned, not even the more outlandish ones.

Candle light flickered to life beneath the pair of hands which bid a match to create a controlled flame so close to skin. The dancing of the flames cast shadows behind the wrinkles in her face, cracks in dusted skin and painted lips. Middle aged, old enough to start being done with life and its misgivings but young enough to pass as a young adult, partying hard and chugging booze.

Expensive perfume floated around her, an aroma of unnatural and tasteless chemicals, to the company she was in. The insistent scent concealed her natural one too well, meaning no proper age, health nor sexual intentions - if she had any - were there. Least wanted was the sexual intentions, for many reasons.

Along with the purposeful shadowing of her wrinkles, cropped hair the colour of mud sprinkled with dry sand haphazardly across its length dangled down from her scalp. A small movement of her head cleared her face, an obviously practiced head flick.

She cleared her throat before the still air was broken by her voice as she addressed the person calmly seated across from her, "I have vital information pertaining to the killings happening around the city. Seeing as the police gave nothing to the public, my colleagues and I used a contact within the force to get hold of a copy of all evidence they had."

Sliding the folder upon the desk between them, she continued to speak, "All of the evidence they have is in this folder, along with theories as to what the killer could be. Please, feel free to look. I came here for your help anyway."

"You speak as if meeting with me is a chore below you," the person across an expanse of polished oak finally released some sound other than his too silent breaths. His voice subtlety rasped with a smoky undertone, playing with the woman as each word was articulated in a modulated way, drawing her attention to specific words: 'you' and 'chore'.

If she had been any good at guessing emotions - which the woman was not - she would say he sounded offended. Her lack of talent in that field prompted her to remain quiet about her idea over his feelings.

His passive face did not help her one bit.

"Your name."

"Cross. Jill Cross."

"Well, _Jill_ , do you think there is a person called Jill upon this list of the dead?"

Within his hands, said list resided with the names of all twelve current victims to the killer. Jill had not seen someone with the same first name on that list and wondered as to why the subject had been brought up.

**_\- 'The Darkness within one's self is not always the same being. The Darkness within myself is not me. A baited line hooks onto the first to bite and never lets go.' -_ **

Now, Jill was not superstitious. She didn't believe in bad luck or good luck, but the woman should have been paying attention. At thirty nine years of age, she fit snuggly into the multiples of thirteen; the number upon the door thirteen beaten out of metal and nailed into place; the folder birthed from the thirteenth delivery of utensils. A bread crumb path so light and unreadable led her here on the twenty sixth day of the first month. Right into awaiting claws.

Being a human raised in security, her lax mind missed the danger, "There is no one called Jill on that list. Why do you ask?"

Tilting his head to the side ever so slightly, looking upon the female with cold eyes, emotionless except for one. Self satisfied pleasure.

"I think the name 'Jill Cross' will look good as the thirteenth death to me, don't you?"

Already strung tight by his smoky undertones, she didn't realise what he had said at first, slowly uncoiling from one set of strings and laying across another. Jolting from her seat, Jill felt all of her muscles shiver, blossoming the uncomfortable feeling of being stretched by her office-work frame.

No matter how much she internally screamed for her legs to **move god damn it!** , Jill's body refused to answer the frantic calls of its master, even as a tempest of ways to torture and prolong pain advanced from behind the desk with soft, stalking strides.

A deep inhale at her sweating neck gave delight. Chemicals no longer hid her emotions from him, obliterated by the ungainly stench of human fear. This one's bladder lasted, enticing him even more. A kill was so much more entertaining when they were aware of the mess they created during the act.

Candles destroyed their fire, murdering the light, protective over the light's innocence and thirsting to be away from the unholy torment office worker Jill Cross became the unwilling puppet for.

Shrieks of agony and a panicked plea to God cascaded in echos rebounding off the box they lived and died in, whispering over the eardrums of the sadistic tormentor and a light within the Darkness.

A whispered, defeated beg for the salvation of death brought with it satisfaction from the creator of the broken being giving voice to it.

"What was that? A proud, vain female of the human race, _begging_?"

Soft. Malicious. Sadistic. Taunting and mocking her weakness. No longer the quiet charm from before this torture.

Her life was cut short, boring now to the ungodly wolf in sheep's clothing.

Silence. Sweet silen-

Horrendous wailing shattered the mournful atmosphere, overflowing with guilt, regret, sorrow, loss, loneliness. Alone. Isolated. Missing someone dear to the heart of that traumatised and traumatic sound.

Rushing to calm the source, a human spy risked life and limb, praying for the most recent of deaths to have sated the beast for a long while.

It slumped against the spy, wishing for strong, familiar arms to encase it, rather than the spindly twigs of the human spy working to comfort it.


End file.
